"What's wrong?" Margo asked.
"Nothing," Kit said, forcing a smile. "Let's set up your study schedule."
Brian returned from helping the other scout and they got down to business. He assigned Margo a language lab, where she was to spend four hours every other day learning the first of the languages on her list. The next four hours of her library days (after lunch, which Kit agreed to have delivered to her from the Neo Edo so she wouldn't need to leave the library) were to be devoted to detailed historical studies.
"Let's start her with American history, since that's what she's likeliest to absorb readily," Brian suggested "Then we'll put her on European history, working backwards from the twentieth century. We'll tackle Africa, Asia, South America, India, and the Middle East a little later in the program, after she's settled down into the study routine and is capable of absorbing cultural detail significantly different from her own."
Kit and Brian agreed she'd be better off leaving the library during the evenings to eat dinner and do homework, and to alternate library days with continued weapons training. With any luck, the physical exercise would leave her tired enough to sleep after homework sessions.
By the time they were done setting up her schedule, Margo was visibly horrified and trying hard not to show it. She gave him a brave smile as they left the library. "One thing's for sure, life'll never be the same around you. Latin, Chinese, and French, oh my..."
"Better that than lions, tigers, or bears," Kit chuckled. "Just remember, you can never truly understand a nation or its people until you can speak its language."
"Right," she sighed, giving him another brave smile. "I just hope scouting is worth all this agony."
Kit resisted the urge to ruffle her short hair. "I doubt you'll be disappointed. Surprised, probably-almost undoubtedly. But disappointed? No, I don't think so. Time travel is never what people expect it to be. And that," he smiled, "is half the fun."
"Well, goodness, I hope so. My head already hurts and I haven't even started yet!"
Kit laughed. "That's because you're stretching your brain, possibly for the first time. Cheer up. By the time you're done, not only will you have the equivalent of several Ph.D.'s you didn't have to pay some university to earn, you'll have the ability to do field research most Ph.D.'s still can't afford to do. Education," he smiled, "is never a waste of time."
She gave him an odd look, but said nothing. Kit found himself fervently hoping London convinced Margo she needed every bit of the "brain work" he and Brian had outlined. Margo loose for a week in London, even with Malcolm Moore along to protect her ...Kit was so apprehensive, before he went to bed that night he found himself standing in the living room doorway, just watching her sleep.
Young, vulnerable ...
He turned away silently and went to bed.
But not to sleep.
Malcolm came for Margo early in the morning the day the Britannia Gate was due to open.
"Hi!" The world was wonderful this morning. Today was the day she would finally step through a gate into history.
"Sleep well?" Malcolm asked.
Margo laughed. "I was so excited I hardly closed my eyes all night."
"Thought as much," he chuckled. "Kit up yet?"
"In the shower."
"All packed?"
"Yes!"
"Good. We have one last appointment before we go."
Uh-oh. Margo regarded him suspiciously. "What is it?
A pained smile came and went. "You're not going to like it, but I think it's vital."
"What?"
"We need to visit Paula Booker."
Margo wondered who the devil that was. "For?"
"Your hair."
Margo touched her short, flame-colored hair. "What's wrong with my hair?"
"Nothing-for here and now. Everything, for down time. That color stands out We want to be inconspicuous. The less noticed you are, the better."
"What are you going to do about it? Dye it?" Margo asked sarcastically.
"Yep.."
She stared "Oh, no."
Malcolm sighed. "I knew this wouldn't be well received. That's why I wanted Kit's opinion."
"On what?" Kit asked, emerging from the bathroom. He was-uncharacteristically-clad only in a towel. His hair was still wet and he hadn't shaved yet Margo stared, knowing it was rude, but she couldn't help it
There were scars. Terrible ones.
"Margo's hair," Malcolm said. "I think Paula should dye it."
Margo managed do drag her gaze off Kits whip-scarred torso and met his gaze. He ignored her stricken look and merely studied her critically. "Yes," he said slowly, "I didn't think it was too important yet, but you're probably right. She's awfully noticeable."
"Thanks for the compliment," Margo muttered. The last thing she wanted to be was "noticeable" if attracting attention earned her scars like Kit's, but the timing was rotten. She'd spent the last twenty-four hours trying hopelessly to memorize Latin declensions and conjugations and whatever else all those verb and noun forms were called. All those fickle, changeable word endings left her head spinning. She'd tried-really tried and now as a reward they wanted to dye her best feature some hideous, drab color to match the clothes they'd picked for her to wear.
Margo wanted to cry or scream at something or wail about how monstrously unfair it was. Instead, she swallowed it raw. Time was ticking away and she was still very little closer to scouting than the day she'd stepped through Primary into La-La Land with a heart full of bright hopes and no notion how murderously difficult it was going to be.
You'll see, she promised. When we get to London, you'll see. I'll prove to you both I can do this.
"Okay," she said finally. "I guess I go downtime looking like a mud hen. Sven keeps telling me, be invisible. I should've seen this coming, huh?" Then, in a bright tone that turned a bitter complaint into a cheery joke, she said, "Let's get this over with and get down time before I'm too old to enjoy it!"
Kit laughed and even Malcolm chuckled. Margo swept out of the apartment before she gave it all away by crying. Malcolm caught up and fell into step.
"You know, Margo,- he said conversationally, "it might help to think of this as the biggest game of dress-up you ever played."
She glanced up, startled. "Dress-up? Oh, good grief, Malcolm, I haven't played dress-up since-" She broke off abruptly, recalling the beating her father had given her for liberating her mother's makeup . "Well, not in a long time," she temporized, covering the stumble she'd made with a bright smile. "It's just you caught me off guard and ...well ...nothing's like I expected it to be. Nothing."
"Very little in life usually is," Malcolm said; without a trace of a smile.
"I suppose so. But l don't have to like it."
Malcolm's glance was keen. "No one said you had to, Margo. Do you think I enjoy groveling for a job every day of my life, living on rice and dried beans, and swallowing my pride when people are rude, callous, or downright cruel? But I do it and smile because that's the price of living my dream."
Margo chewed that over as they left Residential behind and emerged into the throng crowding Frontier Town. A kid sporting an oversized cowboy hat and an undersized leather gunbelt drew and fired his pretend six-shooter at a diving pterosaur. It splashed into a nearby fishpond.
"Got him!" the kid crowed.
Unperturbed, the pterosaur emerged with a wriggling goldfish nearly as large as it was. The kid's father laughed and called him over. He practically swaggered back.